new year = more me

it's a new year. people always say, 'a new year, a new beginning, a new you,' but what if a 'new' anything isn't what you want? what if the 'old' was just fine? what if you had a pretty good oh8?

madonna is known for reinvention and obviously that's what keeps people interested in the entertainment industry but what i really love about her is that the reinvention is just the exterior. it seems to me that she's always balls out about who she is. she's a strong woman and has never hidden who she is and what she's capable of, bitchy. or. not. so, you ask, what does Barb want this year for herself?

honestly, i don't think i'd be too upset for things to keep trucking along as they are. i've got amazing people around me and (gasp) a job i like (i know that's rare these days). the only thing i do want is to make more time for myself...treat myself better both physically and emotionally. not be so hard on myself ya know? we are our harshest critics. otherwise, oh8 was great and oh9...well...i'm not gonna hope for worse am i?

and if i could wish something for the world i'd ask for more optimism and good will, sappy i know, but those two qualities work wonders.

love is all around

it's an interesting transition when family relationships become friendships. visiting family no longer becomes a once a year thing where you talk about your job and other 'safe' subjects so they don't worry about you being crazy in new york and perhaps killing yourself slowly. i've never really lived near my extended family so i've never been able to build relationships with them that more closely resemble my friendships. but as time passes and the more we see each other in our natural environments with our own groups of friends we get a more complete vision of who we are. we move past just being 'the cuz' and into actual people with lives outside of the family setting. people you're related to don't choose to be, as a result friendships aren't always a given for multitudes of reasons. but i have to say that when it does work, when you finally do bond with family it's exceedingly rewarding because blood ties draw you closer to each other much more quickly. then you find out about how much you have in common, their real wants and desires that aren't the 'safe' answers things get so much more real and interesting. you're no longer making assumptions based on what the other person chooses to show you. you become vulnerable and you don't have the choice of hiding thoughts and feelings and smiling all the time even when you don't want to because they now know better. the layers get peeled away. it's a good feeling.

i think, watching people when they're among close friends really tells you a lot about who they are. are they the ones who watch out for their friends when they're faced with unwanted attention? get them drinks? help them host? how do they greet each other? (are they genuinely excited to see each other?) how do they touch? do they care how they appear to strangers? this weekend i saw a lot of pure excitement between friends, real bonds, and a very real desire to just enjoy the moment. because, really, what else is there? exhausted as i am, i am full of love right now. (please, try not to barf on your keyboard.) i'm very lucky to have the friends i have. and now i feel like i've added a few more exceptional people. thank you.

i think, touch is a very underrated method of communication. minds out of the gutter. i value my personal space just as much as the next person, especially at rush hour on the subway but i've always been particularly drawn to people who greet with big hugs and kisses, or just touch your arm or leg when you're chatting. people who aren't afraid of contact, because i'm not, but because other people tend to be i restrain myself. i think our society has veered away from human contact for whatever reason and we can all use just a little bit more of it. just a touch can speak volumes. this weekend, i realized how important that is to me. i've noticed that i build friendships more quickly with people who are more touchy. because it's comfort. it's reassurance. it's warmth. it's acknowledgement that you're a living, breathing, human being. you're there. perhaps that's why i like to give people massages randomly.

i'm at the airport right now, already missing the people i'm leaving but also excited to be with the people at home. enough rambling i think. plus, people are scowling at me for usurping computer time.

Head Over Feet

I woke up this morning, looked at my iTunes, and out of 6948 songs I picked this song by Alanis Morissette. The lyrics (see below) are a strangely accurate (mostly) in describing my feelings towards Obama.

Last night was electric. Energy pulsed in every crack and crevice of this great city. People screamed in the streets as if it was New Years' or perhaps a jailbreak. It was like we were stirred out of an 8-year coma. Over and over again, people (like myself) who said they've never cared about politics, cared and were unable to explain why. I was convinced that Obama had only possessed New York until last night. I hope that watching him win in a landslide will serve to unite these 50 broken states. To realize that as different as each district, town, and city may be the majority announced last night that we were ready for something different. We know Obama doesn't have shoes to fill, he has shoes to fix. Change wont happen overnight and it would be unrealistic to expect otherwise. Eight years of pouty, childish, holier than thou behavior will take some time to reverse however seeing people in other countries celebrate Obama's victory gives me hope that our reputation in the world community can be repaired. It's time to turn a new leaf, start a new chapter, take a deep breath, do all the things we've said we needed to do, and start the healing. No one who knows me would ever call me a patriot, in fact, people called me a communist in high school, but I have faith in people. Our biggest obstacle is the fear we have in ourselves. I have faith in the things that can be accomplished if we only believed that we could.


'I had no choice but to hear you
You stated your case time and again
I thought about it

You treat me like Im a princess
Im not used to liking that
You ask how my day was

(chorus)
Youve already won me over in spite of me
Dont be alarmed if I fall head over feet
Dont be surprised if I love you for all that you are
I couldnt help it
Its all your fault

Your love is think and it swallowed me whole
Youre so much braver than I gave you credit for
Thats not lip service

(repeat chorus)

You are the bearer of unconditional things
You held your breath and the door for me
Thanks for your patience

Youre the best listener that Ive ever met
Youre my best friend
Best friend with benefits
What took me so long

Ive never felt this healthy before
Ive never wanted something rational
I am aware now
I am aware now

(repeat chorus)'

The 3 categories of female undergarments

I came across a blogpost this morning about women's underwear just now and asked Mr. Ling-erie what he thought of said blogpost. I found what he said to be hysterical, accurate, and worthy of a wwbd blogpost to see what ya'll have to say about it. Without further ado I'm honored to present (with minimal editing), 'The 3 categories of female undergarments' by Mr. Ling-erie (aka P.C.):

'you have your cute undies...to lay around in...not good for clothes since it's baggy almost like lounge wear for those ladies who don't like wearing anything beside undies at home...then you have your utility undergarments: everyday, work, comfortable...then you have the come f*#k 'ish out of me undies.

i take mental notes, i mean as a guy you know my stances when it comes to underwear. if i am unwrapping it would be nice if it was well packaged, a bonus, if i may.'

do you agree with Mr. Ling-erie's 3 categories? I think I do. I honestly didn't realize until recently that underoos are very important to some on a sexual level. Of course, I recognize there's visual appeal but I dunno I guess I just didn't know it's a bigger deal to some.

An amazing essay

please read: Here's the original

'If Men Could Menstruate

by Gloria Steinem
Ms. Magazine, October 1978 (EXCERPT)

So what would happen if suddenly, magically, men could menstruate and women could not?

Clearly, menstruation would become an enviable, worthy, masculine event:

Men would brag about how long and how much.

Young boys would talk about it as the envied beginning of manhood. Gifts, religious ceremonies, family dinners, and stag parties would mark the day.

To prevent monthly work loss among the powerful, Congress would fund a National Institute of Dysmenorrhea. Doctors would research little about heart attacks, from which men would be hormonally protected, but everything about cramps.

Sanitary supplies would be federally funded and free. Of course, some men would still pay for the prestige of such commercial brands as Paul Newman Tampons, Muhammad Ali's Rope-a-Dope Pads, John Wayne Maxi Pads, and Joe Namath Jock Shields- "For Those Light Bachelor Days."

Statistical surveys would show that men did better in sports and won more Olympic medals during their periods.
Generals, right-wing politicians, and religious fundamentalists would cite menstruation ("men-struation") as proof that only men could serve God and country in combat ("You have to give blood to take blood"), occupy high political office ("Can women be properly fierce without a monthly cycle governed by the planet Mars?"), be priests, ministers, God Himself ("He gave this blood for our sins"), or rabbis ("Without a monthly purge of impurities, women are unclean").

Male liberals and radicals, however, would insist that women are equal, just different; and that any woman could join their ranks if only she were willing to recognize the primacy of menstrual rights ("Everything else is a single issue") or self-inflict a major wound every month ("You must give blood for the revolution").

Street guys would invent slang ("He's a three-pad man") and "give fives" on the corner with some exchange like, "Man you lookin' good!"

"Yeah, man, I'm on the rag!"

TV shows would treat the subject openly. (Happy Days: Richie and Potsie try to convince Fonzie that he is still "The Fonz," though he has missed two periods in a row. Hill Street Blues: The whole precinct hits the same cycle.) So would newspapers. (Summer Shark Scare Threatens Menstruating Men. Judge Cites Monthlies In Pardoning Rapist.) And so would movies. (Newman and Redford in Blood Brothers!)

Men would convince women that sex was more pleasurable at "that time of the month." Lesbians would be said to fear blood and therefore life itself, though all they needed was a good menstruating man.

Medical schools would limit women's entry ("they might faint at the sight of blood").

Of course, intellectuals would offer the most moral and logical arguments. Without the biological gift for measuring the cycles of the moon and planets, how could a woman master any discipline that demanded a sense of time, space, mathematics-- or the ability to measure anything at all? In philosophy and religion, how could women compensate for being disconnected from the rhythm of the universe? Or for their lack of symbolic death and resurrection every month?

Menopause would be celebrated as a positive event, the symbol that men had accumulated enough years of cyclical wisdom to need no more.

Liberal males in every field would try to be kind. The fact that "these people" have no gift for measuring life, the liberals would explain, should be punishment enough.

And how would women be trained to react? One can imagine right-wing women agreeing to all these arguments with a staunch and smiling masochism. ("The ERA would force housewives to wound themselves every month": Phyllis Schlafly)

In short, we would discover, as we should already, that logic is in the eye of the logician. (For instance, here's an idea for theorists and logicians: if women are supposed to be less rational and more emotional at the beginning of our menstrual cycle when the female hormone is at its lowest level, then why isn't it logical to say that, in those few days, women behave the most like the way men behave all month long? I leave further improvisation up to you.)

The truth is that, if men could menstruate, the power justifications would go on and on.

If we let them.'

Men's Health Urbanathlon, #789

I've never seen Central Park in such a fog. It was almost 7am, almost race time, and I was almost at the start line, but not quite. I observed the quietness of the park at that hour. The only audible sounds were the pounding feet of the regular morning runners making their rounds around the main loop. I start seeing people who were there for the same purpose as me and I follow them. I'm more nervous than I was right before I went skydiving. Is it strange that I was more afraid of this than falling out of an airplane?

I find D and we head to the start line JUST as the race was about to begin. We've got our respective ipods strapped in, give each other a high five, and get to work. It was certainly surreal jogging across 72nd street at 7am with 1500 other people under this immense fog. I wonder if any of the people sleeping cozily in the nearby buildings are aware of this mass of runners just beneath them. We decide to split as we get on the path along the Hudson. I notice that I can't even really see New Jersey just across the river. I look ahead of me. I look to the side. I try to focus on the carefully curated playlist I'd tweaked the night before in preparation. My feet are already wet and the unseemly thought of blisters pops into my head. Will I have to abort the race because of blisters? Luckily D told me he was going to get dri fit socks the night before and I made a hasty stop at Paragon to pick up socks and a longish pair of chocolate running shorts.

I stay at my own pace and run to my own beat, after all, my goal was to finish without stopping. This was not a race of speed but rather a challenge of the mind and body. Could I do this? I notice runners with "Go Army" tees pass me and I realize that I'm going up against people who run drills like this regularly at work, who've likely seen war, and who will leave me in the dust. But no matter, this is not a race. I see the first obstacle and think, "Here we go Barb." I see D exit the obstacle as I approach it. I jump and crawl my way through it easily. "That wasn't so bad, I hope they're all like this," I think. I left a piece of skin behind while crawling through one of the tubes. I'm bleeding. Great. I skip the water stop and head on. No stopping. No stopping.

I jog along, past the 34th street heliport and see a couple about to split. "Go on," she motions. As he pulls ahead of her. I end up in line with him, running at an awkwardly similar pace right next to each other, one of us hoping to pull ahead and leave the other behind for solitude. He pulls ahead of me. I see two cars of people pull up near 14th street with signs looking for the runners they came to support. "Cute," I think. Onward. I see the pier where the second set of obstacles are sure to be. I crawl. I wipe by hands on my shirt before gripping the monkey bars, sure that I will fall off before reaching the other side. Did I train for this? "If you fall off, you'll have to backtrack a lap and try again," I hear. I miraculously get across in one shot. Pain sears trough my shoulders and traps. "How the hell did I just do that?" I see the marine hurdles which might as well be walls. The logjam leading up to it served as a nice break. "How am I gonna do this?" I turn around and ask the guy behind me, "Will you boost me if I need it?"

"Sure, no problem."

There were probably 5 hurdles, #367 boosted me on each one. I could feel the bruises on my knees each time I hoisted myself over the wood.

"I got you hon, don't worry."

I finish the hurdles, "I owe you big time, #367." I high-fived him and went on.

Onward.

I jog past city streets and think about people I know comfortably sleeping in their beds nearby, dreaming away. "Why the hell am I doing this?"

Fatigue starts to set in near Canal St and I marvel that I've made it this far. "Just gotta get to 7 World Trade Barb, that's all you gotta do."

I see people careening out of the building as I approach. I jog through a small group of supporters, past relayers waiting on teammates, and into the escape stairwell. The air is thick, ventilation is limited, and the sweat on the rails reminds me not to touch my face directly with my hands from here on out. I hear someone say, "this is the real death march," and I think of the other 'death marches' I've been on consisting mainly of endless walking around new cities. I suddenly have a refined definition. Big strapping men wearing boot camp tees are stopping on the landings. Young volunteers appear on every other landing offering support, "only 40 more flights to go!"

One woman says, "I don't think I can make it." "Yes you can!" I say "You're almost there." Onward.

I get to the 52nd FL. I hear, "Rest this way, otherwise this way to head back down."

I head right back down. Legs are wobbly. I take it slowly. I feel my 17th wind and speed up. Round and round. I look up for a second, get dizzy, look back down.

I exit 7 World Trade, grab a big jug of water and pour it into where I last remembered my mouth should be. I run on.

"More stairs!???" I hear someone exclaim.

It was the overpass back to the river side of the highway.

My final mile to the finish was a slow slow jog. "Don't stop Barb, don't stop you're almost there."

I'm reminded of an airport arrivals area as I enter Battery Park and pass through throngs of well-wishers.

I see people slide across the taxis. I see the wall. The very. Big. Wall. With just a rope. What I have is beyond fatigue but the finish line is just on the other side of this wall. Just. I lock eyes with a man who was waiting at the base offering boosts. You ready? Yeah, I guess. I get up and barely peek over the wall. I see the finish but my muscles are not helping me get anything more than my eyeballs over this wall. "Are you okay?" I hear. I feel the wood burning marks into my skin. "Just a little bit more!" I say. I contemplate stepping on his shoulder and head to give me that extra boost. Somehow we get me up and over. I steady myself on the platform before heading onward to cross the finish. "Barb!" I hear. I look over and see D. Euphoria sets in. We high five each other. "Oh my god I'm so proud of us" we both say repeatedly. Euphoria, adrenaline, whatever it is causes us to babble on for a minute or so until I realize I need water. "Lets get some water."

I feel a tap on my shoulder, "Congrats." It was the woman in the stairwell who 'couldn't' go on. I say "yes, you too."

I'm #789 and it's almost 9am.

Party for a cause!

Here's some stuff:

1. Support BARACK OBAMA at this special event!

Featuring DJ ?uestlove on the ones and twos


Thursday, September 11th, 2008
Sutra, 16 First Ave., bet 1st and 2nd streets
$10 suggested donations at the door. ALL PROCEEDS go directly to the Obama '08 campaign.
On site voter registration!
Doors at 9:00pm
www.okayplayer.com



2. 'From: Not the Desmonds
Date: Tue, Sep 9, 2008 at 11:00 PM
Subject: NTD Benefit Showcase for Gifted Hands - 9/21
To: notthedesmonds@gmail.com


Friends of Not The D.,

We're sending out a save the date for a very fun and important Benefit
Showcase that we're hosting.

On September 21st, three bands will play the Living Room in the Lower East Side:

7:00 p.m. The Peel School
8:00 p.m. Not The Desmonds
9:00 p.m. Scott's Roger

First, let me start by saying that the members of The Peel School (the
new name of Mike Kleba's band) and Scott's Roger are not only all
fantastic people and great friends of mine, they're also writing and
performing some truly astounding music. No joke - you will laugh, cry
and do all those other cliche things we all do when we hear music
that's life changing. If you don't know their music, this gig is a
perfect opportunity for you to get acquainted with them. If you
do...well, you already know what I'm talking about.

Second, 100% of the $10 cover (for all three bands) will go to Gifted
Hands, an art therapy agency and community of volunteers based in the
Lower East Side who have a passion to help improve the lives of their
neighbors in New York City. For over 15 years, Gifted Hands has been
reaching out to "the least and the last" in the city, helping them to
see value in themselves through discovering they have the power to
create. Serving neighbors through art, music, dance, spiritual
support, design and other programs, Gifted Hands helps men and women
in shelters, recovery programs, crisis pregnancy centers, HIV/AIDS
residences, elder care residencies, youth-at-risk centers, foster care
group homes, churches, and people living on the streets.

Gifted Hands has started over 50 art programs around NYC and abroad
teaching jewelry, art and craft projects, stained glass, wood working,
sculpture, painting, decoupage, pen and ink drawing, and poetry
writing...hundreds of our city's least fortunate find satisfaction and
hope just by picking up a paintbrush, molding a piece of clay or
singing music they could never have imagined even hearing.
Friends, this is what being an artist is all about - making the world
a better place. We hope to see you on Sunday the 21st to celebrate
and contribute to this organization. Here are a few additional
details:
The Living Room
154 Ludlow Street btw. Stanton and Rivington
www.livingroomny.com
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Show starts at 7 p.m. sharp! Don't be late!!

Gifted Hands: http://giftedhandsnyc.com

The Peel School: www.myspace.com/thepeelschool

Scott's Roger: www.myspace.com/scottsroger

See you there.

Michael E.
Not a Desmonds
www.myspace.com/notthedesmonds'